Hot Heir: A Royal Bodyguard / Secret Heir / Marriage of Convenience Romantic Comedy

by Pippa Grant

  I’ve at least three bee stings on my own face, my lungs are requesting air rather than the bathwater I seem to be breathing in, and there’s a rather large decision to be made about my entire future lingering in the back of my mind.

  I’ve also just secured a prisoner who’s quite likely responsible for the only reasonable adult in her immediate family currently being held at the county jail for crimes against fruit and balloons.

  Today could not get much worse.

  “Jeeves, text Joey Diamonte. I’ve secured Miss Papaya Maloney and will hold her until I receive instruction otherwise.”

  “Sending,” my phone answers.

  “Ooh, the infamous Joey Diamonte,” Papaya says, digging her heels into the ground now that we’re outside the bee zone. “She’s all bark and no bite.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” I give her a push, apply pressure to a point just above her elbow, and she marches with a yelp. “I, however, am both. Let’s go introduce you to the authorities, shall we? I’m sure they’ll enjoy hearing the real story of your sister’s adventure this morning.”

  “Whatever you want to—ow! Child abuse!”

  “Pressure point therapy. Good for circulation. Far less painful than juvenile detention, I assure you.”

  Kristofer joins me halfway back to the carriage house, where His Highness is still waiting.

  “I’ll watch her,” Kristofer offers.

  “I believe this one shall take both of us,” I reply.

  Because I’ve no intention of returning to the manor at the moment.

  I dislike delaying the inevitable. As a general rule, I believe in facing problems head-on.

  But it’s not every day a problem presents itself that will result in me carrying the weight of my family’s lost dreams.

  I’ve seven days before I must decline the throne. Consideration of a solution to the marriage dilemma is in order.

  4

  Peach Maloney (aka an accidental felon with a family problem)

  If reincarnation is real, I hope I come back as a rhinoceros.

  Nobody fucks with a rhinoceros. You get to eat as much as you want and nobody calls you fat because if they do, you’ll sit on them and squash the fuck out of them. Plus, if you get lucky and live in a zoo, it’s all swimming and sunning all day long, and if you have delinquent relatives, well, you also have a horn to shove up their asses.

  Also?

  Rhinoceroses don’t have court.

  They don’t fit in police cruisers or handcuffs.

  And hundred-year-old good ol’ boy judges can’t sit on their benches and order them to get married.

  “B-but—” I sputter before Julie Templeton, my attorney, clamps a shut up hand around my arm.

  “Your Honor,” she says over my protests to the supposedly honorable Judge Thurgood Augustus Masterson the Third, of the Birmingham Mastersons just in case you care about that sort of thing, “this morning’s incident proves Miss Maloney has the maternal instincts to go along with the financial and emotional means necessary to raise a child by herself. The theory of a two-parent family—”

  “Is necessary for the well-being of this child,” the judge interrupts.

  “Papaya Maloney is being passed from relative to relative—”

  “Getting raised by a village,” he drawls. “Knowing she has someone to go to if one of her support system ends up in jail.”

  I start to rise again, but Julie once again pushes me back. “Your Honor, it’s a shame when a teenager in need of some consistency is denied the possibility of a steady home because of a good deed that took a wrong turn.”

  The judge pulls off his glasses and peers at me. He’s ninety if he’s a day, with a liver spot in the shape of Abraham Lincoln’s profile on his head, wrinkles eating his cheeks, and his black robes making him appear halfway to his own funeral.

  He also judged the Grits Fest 5k Color Run last weekend and was the deciding vote that gave first prize in the best body paint contest to a group of frat monkeys from his alma mater rather than to a local Goat’s Tit family that had everyone down to the toddler running in matching glitter tie-dye T-shirts with unicorn horns glued to their foreheads.

  For that alone, I’ll never forgive him.

  That family was adorable.

  But denying me custody of Papaya?

  The man can rot in hell. I know where she’s going if she doesn’t get some stability and supervision.

  “Miss Maloney, you work well past supper every night, this isn’t your first brush with the law, and you don’t even know where young Papaya is right now. If you want full-time custody of your sister, you need a husband.” He bangs his gavel and rises.

  “So help me, Peach, I will muffle you with my hands if I need to,” my attorney breathes in my ear. “He won’t give you custody if he’s holding you in contempt of court.”

  That’s the problem with living in a small town.

  Everybody knows your business, and all those pesky details about proper and procedure get lost.

  Technically, my house is halfway between Goat’s Tit and Huntsville, where I work, but it happens to fall five hundred feet on the wrong side of the county line, so battling for custody in Huntsville isn’t happening.

  What should’ve been an easy process—Papaya’s daddy signed everything he needed to, giving me permission to adopt my half-sister when our mama passed on a few months ago—is turning into a never-ending circus of me perpetually trying to prove that I’ll be a better guardian than the parent who doesn’t want her.

  The judge leaves the courtroom, and I drop back to the wooden chair. Outside, magnolia leaves are rustling in the wind, and a late afternoon storm is brewing.

  We’ve all missed the annual grits cook-off, which is the only thing in Goat’s Tit worthwhile—aside from Papaya and Gracie, of course. And most of the residents who aren’t Judge Masterson or one of his relatives.

  Every town has one, right?

  Ours just happens to sit on a bench and lord his rule over the rest of us.

  But unfortunately, I’m beginning to think His Honorable Liverspot is right.

  While I don’t agree that having a husband should ever be grounds for being a parent, I do work too many hours to do this single parent gig.

  And a kid with the mischief and motivation and brains of Papaya shouldn’t be spending her spare time outside school within a quarter mile of airplanes retrofitted to handle simulating zero gravity, which is exactly where I spend my working hours.

  I co-own Weightless, a flight adventure company, with my very best friend in the entire world. Our planes take regular you-and-me kind of people on a crazy fun ride where we simulate zero gravity and let our passengers feel like they’re riding in space. Like they’re astronauts without having to leave the earth’s atmosphere.

  We’ve expanded operations this last year after taking on a silent investor, and I’ve spent most of my time securing government contracts and research grants and doing all the paperwork and networking and hiring necessary to get us to a point that we now have four planes we operate, manned by six flight crews. Until I realized Papaya was running loose all over Casper County since our mama died, I was working fourteen-hour days. The last few months, I’ve still been mostly pulling ten-hour days.

  On the days I can work.

  Which means we’re starting to fall behind on securing new contracts to keep our jets occupied.

  I drop my head to the wobbly table. “He’s right,” I mutter to Julie. “I can’t do this myself.”

  “You won’t be by yourself. You have Goat’s Tit behind you.”

  I’m not a native Goat’s Titter. Titter? Tittian? Whatever. The point is, I grew up in Saintsville, which is basically Goat’s Tit’s biggest high school rival, and even though high school was mumble mumble years ago, there’s history between the two towns that means I’m still regarded suspiciously by some.

  Not that I was popular in Saintsville.

  Far from it. Because when Peta
l Masterson—yes, Judge Liverspot’s granddaughter—made it her personal mission to make sure the entire world knew I was from trash, all I’d ever amount to was trash, and that I’d die trash, I started to think that might be all I was, even though the only difference between us was that she came from money and I came from an accident.

  My mama had me when she was sixteen, and neither she nor my sperm donor was old enough to handle the responsibility of parenthood. Meemaw raised me. We were never sure exactly where my mama was throughout the state. I was almost old enough to vote before Papaya came along, and I didn’t even know I had a sister for a few years.

  Papaya’s who I would’ve been if I hadn’t had Meemaw. And even then, I gave Meemaw some heart attacks in my teen years.

  And possibly also gave Goat’s Tit—and Judge Liverspot—some reason to not trust me. I was guilty of a lot, from toilet papering to cow tipping, though that grow a dick stunt that left giant foam penises floating in the county pool one Fourth of July was not my fault, and one day, I’ll get Petal Masterson to fess up.

  Not that it’ll change my fate today.

  I dig my phone out of my purse and double check my messages.

  Nothing since Joey reported Manning’s guards had found Papaya and were holding her at Gracie’s place until I could get there.

  No updates on Weightless or how work was today or how many reporters and investigators she’s had to talk to.

  Not that she’d tell me. Joey’s big on protecting her own.

  But she can’t protect me from this.

  I committed a federal felony against an aircraft today, and burned down an orchard to boot. Got a court date all set for that too.

  One spur-of-the-moment decision trying to save my little sister turned me from respectable business owner to a liability to the company I’ve poured all my blood, sweat, and tears into for the last five years.

  Because of course it has.

  I’m a kid from a backwoods trailer park still trying to prove to people like Judge Liverspot that I can make something of myself.

  But every time I get three steps ahead, my roots catch up to me.

  5

  Peach

  Because of course my day can get worse, when I get to Gracie’s, I have a voicemail.

  For once, I’m grateful for that my phone automatically sends calls to voicemail when I’m driving, because otherwise, I’d probably be heading to jail for murder right about now.

  This is Bitsy Jacobson. Brantley’s mother. That little hoodlum sister of yours has been corrupting my baby boy, and I want you to know right now that if you don’t keep her away from him, we’re going to be pressing charges for trespassing and harassment and anything else our lawyer can come up with. If she wants to be some teenage trash with two babies on her hips before she’s eighteen, that’s her business. But I’m not going to have my boy’s life ruined by some—

  I stop the voicemail with shaky fingers before she can finish. My chest is collapsing in on itself, and I suddenly feel about fifteen myself again.

  Something has to give. To change.

  Papaya’s so fucking smart. I don’t care what her report card says, any kid who can sneak out of class undetected, get all the way to the school kitchens, and ruin macaroni and glue day with a rainbow volcano science experiment erupting simultaneously out of every cafeteria pot could go places if she just had the right guidance.

  She could be the doctor who cures cancer. She could negotiate world peace. She could invent untangle-able power cords and universal adapters that will automatically morph whenever all these gadget manufacturers change up their plugs.

  But she’s on a path of self-destruction that’s so familiar, I can’t breathe.

  There has to be a way to save her from herself before it’s too late.

  The front door of the manor—yes, the manor, because house is too tame of a word for the big ol’ grand antebellum home Manning bought Gracie for their summers in Goat’s Tit—opens and the prince himself steps out in a collared short-sleeve shirt and cargo shorts.

  He’s smiling—fucker’s always smiling—and he pauses with one hand on the door, as though he’s ready to dart back inside if I start launching projectiles at him.

  We have a love-hate relationship. We both love Gracie, and we both hate to admit we might actually be growing on each other.

  When a rich, attractive, hockey-playing foreign prince knocks up your best friend’s lower-middle-class small-town baby sister, you tend to go overboard with making sure he’s good enough for her, since money and fame don’t buy class or morals.

  At least, you do when you’re me.

  I push down all my worries about Papaya so I can breathe again, and I step out of my truck. “No lapdogs waiting to pat me down this time?” I say dryly.

  Because that’s what happens every time I come over here.

  One moment, Ms. Maloney, we need to inspect your handbag before you may enter the prince’s home.

  Pardon me, Ms. Maloney, we need to search your vehicle for weapons.

  Ms. Maloney, it’s come to our attention that you were once incarcerated for threatening a public official. You should be aware that any perceived threats to His Highness shall be neutralized immediately. However, as a friend to Miss Gracie, I shall give you the privilege of expressing your preference now—shall it be a taser or physical restraints?

  Fucking Viktor.

  It’s like he enjoys lording it over me that Manning’s a prince and I’m still trailer trash at heart.

  “Security is all tied up with your sister.” Manning’s grin increases by a factor of I love being a shithead. “Gracie asked me to inform you that she’ll return to the carriage house after feeding Sophie.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “Thank you.”

  “Always a pleasure to have you in my debt.”

  “One day you’re going to wake up with fire ants in your drawers.”

  He laughs, because we both know if he deserved fire ants in his drawers, Joey would’ve already put them there. “’Twould be my pleasure to accompany you to the carriage house, but I’ve a guest I must return to. Please don’t torture poor Viktor again—he’s had a rough day.”

  “Heaven forbid,” I reply.

  He winks at me. “Chin up, Peach. This too shall pass.”

  The fact that Manning is borderline consoling me is enough to remind me just how precarious everything is. Because when Manning Frey passes up an opportunity to get his digs in, you know it’s bad.

  And now I’m headed to enemy territory.

  Also known as Viktor’s place.

  I can’t entirely explain why he rubs me wrong—other than the fact he’s always trying to get my goat, and he’s always insisting on making me jump through more hoops than Joey whenever we come visit Gracie. And I wasn’t the one who blatantly threatened his life—multiple times—when we found out Gracie was pregnant with Manning’s baby.

  But Joey gets a pass, whereas I get the criminal treatment.

  But that’s still not what bothers me the most about Viktor.

  I think it’s that he chose this life. Manning didn’t have any say in falling out of a royal vagina at birth, but Viktor had a say in choosing to get paid to protect someone who’s only important because he was born in the right family. And Manning is so far down the line to inherit that his father lets him play professional hockey in the States instead of keeping him back home in Stölland to do real work for his country.

  So Viktor’s life work is guarding a man who will never be asked to negotiate peace treaties with other countries, or tasked with solving hunger in a country, or leading a charge for equal rights in the workplace. No, Manning’s greatest contribution to society is skating around chasing a puck.

  That’s what Viktor guards.

  Plus, he’s so by-the-book, my aging free spirit gags every time he’s around.

  I knock on the door, and a moment later, Kristofer opens it. I breathe a small sigh of relief, because while Kristof
er is equally tall, thick, and darkly brooding as Viktor, he’s also boring as a split end.

  Kristofer never smirks.

  He never even talks if he doesn’t have to.

  Case in point?

  He merely opens the door wider, scans me with his eyeballs as though he could detect hidden weapons on me with his x-ray vision—whereas Viktor would probably insist on running a background check again—and allows me entry.

  I take two steps into the devil’s lair and stop dead in my tracks.

  Papaya is handcuffed to a chair at a table between the living room and a small galley kitchen.

  She’s also bent over a paper, lower lip caught between her teeth in intense concentration, slowly tracing something with a pencil that’s had its eraser chewed off.

  Viktor’s in the chair opposite her, legs spread wide, arms crossed over his barrel chest, stretching the fabric of his crisp white button-down. He’s focused on her with an unwavering intensity, as though he knows as well as I do how easily she could slip out of those cuffs and disappear out the door.

  There are welts on her cheek and neck, and my pulse freezes.

  Bees.

  She got herself into a nest of bees.

  If she was allergic, she’d be dead.

  She suddenly snaps straight and throws the pencil on the table. “It’s impossible,” she announces.

  “It is if you give up,” Viktor replies.

  No smirk, no gotcha, no smart-ass to be seen. If it had been me, he probably would’ve said something like only for the weak.

  Of course, I wouldn’t have ever admitted to Viktor that anything was impossible.

  The paper Papaya was bent over has nine dots in a three-by-three square on it. Actually, there are several iterations of the nine dot pattern, all of them with lines drawn connecting the dots in some fashion or another.

  None of them with all the dots connected.

  I know this puzzle.

  Papaya apparently doesn’t.

  “It’s simple math,” she says to Viktor. “You can’t connect nine dots with four lines.”

  “You can if you wish to have a cookie,” he replies.